


Strangers

by crush (beekeepercain)



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Blood, Bottom Sam Winchester, Boy King of Hell Sam Winchester, First Aid, Hurt/Comfort, King of Hell Sam, M/M, Minor Ruby/Sam Winchester, Minor Violence, Top Dean Winchester
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-05
Updated: 2016-04-05
Packaged: 2018-05-31 12:01:27
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,093
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6469330
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/beekeepercain/pseuds/crush
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>They meet again by accident. They don’t have words - instead, Sam moves in closer, seats himself beside his brother and breathes the same air with him for a moment, pretending the years don’t separate them any more than the tainted blood within him does.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Strangers

* * *

 

They meet again by accident - it’s Dean crashing a party he doesn’t know is special. There’s blood, and Sam’s high on the scent of it; it takes him a long while to understand what came blasting through the doors and started cutting down demons on his left and right. For a while, there’s chaos. He’s searching through it, dodging blows not from the enemy but from his own struggling to find the right target, as one by one the crowd thins, splatters of red drowning the candles set on the altar.

They’re left in the dark. When the last demon falls, Sam isn’t asking questions anymore, but Dean hasn’t quite caught up to it yet. His fist meets his brother’s face, makes him stumble back a step before there’s a blade rushing for him, and with the same grace he would use in bending it from the older’s fist in any of their training sessions, Sam deflects it and has it clattering on the stone floor before Dean realises what hit him. He’s got another fist wrapping up in his flannel, formerly brown like the barks of trees on a warm summer’s day but now mostly red and black with the thick coppery warmth from the slaughter, and he knows to dodge to avoid another blow. He doesn’t strike back - he has no intentions of hurting Dean - but he’s not saying anything, either, taking guesses how long it’ll take for Dean to recognise him, each missed opportunity showing just how the years apart have shaped him. 

Sam’s knee digs into the floor, not from a blow but from another dodge, this one almost lazy as he bends down. Dean’s next attack slows in the middle of gaining strength and comes to a dead end before connecting with Sam’s face, and he doesn’t even bother moving to avoid it. There’s a moment of silence with waves of breaths shaking between them, then Dean’s hand moves, brings out the Zippo lighter from his pocket. Sam waits for the flame, knees on the floor, body relaxed in spite of the adrenaline rushing in his corrupted veins. It’s like coming home when the fire finally lights, paints Dean’s features upon the black canvas of the darkened room surrounding them. There are drops of blood smeared all over him and a new scar along his chin, barely visible but Sam could point it out a mile away. His own face is unshaven for a week or so, and he can see Dean’s eyes mapping out the way the dark brown softens his features, and almost as if the older doesn’t realise it himself, he drags a finger along Sam’s jawline to feel it out. Their eyes meet and his hand falls down again, and something twists his expression; Sam can feel the same tug in his own chest, and his lips release a small gasp, his heart finally allowing him to feel the sea of emotion that has flooded barely contained underneath the surface of calm.

Dean moves first, stepping back from where he stands. His fingers are covered in sticky blood just like everything else about him, and corpses litter the room around them. Sam stands up again and stays there, forcing his eyes away from his soaked brother and onto the devastation surrounding him.

 _What were you thinking?_ he wants to ask, but not right now - a month, a year from now perhaps, in a different world where their paths merge again.

He turns back towards Dean and sees the water in his eyes reflect the flame he’s transferring to a candle not completely marred by blood.

“Hell gates, Sam?” he asks in a dull voice, not looking towards his younger brother.

Sam lets out a sound of agreement. It doesn’t matter. None of this mess matters. He moves closer to the circle of light and finds the altar eerily void of blood, like the sigils drawn into the floor have either drank it all or kept the unclean blood away. His blood. Demon blood. The purified blood sits in its silver basin intact until Dean reaches for it and moves it away. He takes seat in its place and runs his hand over the stone underneath him, and suddenly it’s no longer an altar, just an empty grave, defiled years and years ago, long before the mausoleum became an unholy place. His eyes turn back to Sam and there’s a depth in them that hurts the younger to see - disappointment or sadness, he doesn’t know.

They don’t have words. Instead, Sam moves in closer, seats himself beside his brother and breathes the same air with him for a moment, pretending the years don’t separate them any more than the tainted blood within him does. This could be just another hunt for them, just another exhaustion settling in after another fight.

“Let me get that,” Dean utters finally, pulling out his sleeve to cover his hand.  
Sam stills when he reaches for him, but instead of pain, he feels Dean brush over some bleeding gap in his skin that he never noticed until now. He looks down and finds his arm soaking wet, warm. He couldn’t even tell the smell apart from the rest.  
“It’s gonna need stitches.”

“You don’t have to -”

“I know. Sit still, I’ll be back in a moment.”

And Sam, the boy king upon the black throne of Gehenna, sits still as Dean stands up and walks back through the heavy darkwood door that creaks on its rusty hinges when he exits the mausoleum. Suddenly he feels weary, heavy in all of his limbs, even his head droops down a little. He closes his eyes and breathes, losing time until Dean’s footsteps land upon the dirty floor and he returns to him, carrying the old battered first aid kit that moved to them from their father. Dean doesn’t offer him more words when he tugs down his filthy flannel and strips it from his arm, leaving it hanging heavy from Sam’s other shoulder. He pulls up the candle and sets it so that it lights the wound on the younger’s arm, then cleans it carefully but quickly just like he’s always done, a little rough on the touch, trusting that Sam will handle the pain. The alcohol stings and for a moment washes away the heavy smell of blood from Sam’s nose, but it fades quickly and leaves nothing but the needle thrusting into his flesh, stretching his swelling skin and piercing the bleeding red of the cut. It tents up the skin on the other side and breaks through again. Six times it goes through, six times it comes out, and then it’s over: the wound is closed, and Dean wraps a bandage around it to keep it clean.

Sam nods a thank you. The candle’s flame flickers between them as the first-aid kit finds it way beside it. The tomb’s stone is cold and smooth underneath them. A shiver rushes through Sam, but instead of pulling his bloody flannel back on, he drops it off instead, casts it on the floor. He turns towards Dean and watches him for a moment, tries to say something, anything, but his voice betrays him and instead he just sits there, lips parted to an opening that never comes, and Dean’s eyes catch onto his and seem like he doesn’t know how to tear them away anymore. They’re stuck in that place for a moment, counting exhales and trying to make the space disappear, but then it does, literally, and Sam feels his breath melt into Dean’s, uncertain who leaned in or if they both did at once. Their lips don’t meet - this isn’t a kiss - but they’re breathing air from one another’s mouth, trapped, shaking, heads bowed and eyes closed, palms pressed against the surface below but bodies radiating warmth towards each other as if to defy the cold. Dean moves past it first; his hand wraps around Sam’s hair, pulls him forwards and his teeth nip a hold of the younger’s ear. He stills to it, each nerve in his body suddenly raw just expecting another touch, but Dean’s already moving forwards like driven by the fear of staying still and realising what he’s doing - he pushes Sam on his back on the grave, tugs at his hair until his scalp is swelling from the pain, mouth sucking at his neck and one hand tearing at the younger’s shirt to move it away from his way. He’s balanced on one knee and the toes of his leg reaching for the ground, and Sam’s legs are suddenly parted on Dean’s both sides as his body presses between them, and he holds his eyes closed and takes it, just takes it, like it’s a part of healing him, just another stitch going through his skin. His lips part to let out a silent sigh and he can feel the presence of the corpses littering the mausoleum around them, as if each of them now watches Dean’s hands move under his shirt until he isn’t wearing it anymore and his body is there for the taking, lean muscle and soft skin pressed against the stone underneath like served on a platter. He offers his hips towards Dean, lets him battle open his belt and drag the zipper down like it all belongs to him, like this is nothing out of the ordinary, and it isn’t, not for them. If he hoped the years didn’t matter before, then in this moment, they do not - it’s just another night, another hunt, another fight and the rush of adrenaline that follows it, the melting into the other’s hold, the raw longing to feel a half of his soul join with him again. He reaches a leg over Dean’s body and joins in, dragging the shirt off of his brother’s body, leaving his bloody skin exposed to the cold just like he is until Dean comes down again to look for warmth in him. 

He can taste the blood on Dean’s skin, too. It’s not just the smell of it, the sight of it, but also the rich, full taste of it on his tongue once he dares to take that step. A fire lights inside him, a hunger, and he wishes there was more for him to take. The need makes his fingers tremble, his nostrils flare to drag in another long breath of the coppery air, but he pushes it to the side, feeling ashamed and wrong in his skin again unlike he’s felt in years. Their hips grind together through the fabric of their jeans, Sam’s open, revealing skin and the dark cloth separating them even further, but he reaches down and undoes Dean’s belt as well, fingers stiff and needy. Dean’s climbing on the tomb, pushing him up on it until the edge digs into the back of his skull, threatening to leave his head hanging: the other’s fingers take a firm hold of Sam’s pants and drag them down, then kick them off completely until they join the mess on the floor. He pushes Sam’s hands aside and does the same for his own clothes, leaving them bare together, illuminated only by the flickering candle as he reaches for the first-aid kit again.

They’ve always carried lube in it. First because it was useful, then because it was a logical place to keep it. Now, Sam assumes, it’s there again solely because it’s useful, but he can’t help another shiver rushing through him at the sight of Dean wetting his fingertips in the clear gel. Dean doesn’t look at him, not like he usually would at this stage. Instead, he brings his hand between Sam’s legs and Sam parts them for him like he’d always done, without asking, without thinking, and feels his body tense in expectation of the first touch. There’s no ritual to it. Dean’s calloused fingertips run a circle over Sam’s rim, spreading the gel over him, the texture of his touch teasing the sensitive flesh before he pushes a finger in. It enters smoothly, and Sam’s body accepts it; his hips bump impatiently to the touch and he presses his eyes closed, pretending to be somewhere else so that the situation won’t catch up with him. It doesn’t last very long; it’s easy to get lost in the way Dean prepares him, the gentleness of his touches even after all these years, even after the fights, the disappointment, the betrayal and the count of days and nights spent apart like the other no longer existed at all. There’s love in it, unlike in the way they treat each other now, in the act where they are strangers and nothing more, sharing a distant past together that only obliges them to forced familiarity. Longing, when the second finger enters a little too soon. Sam opens his eyes again when Dean moves over him, lips pressing against the antipossession tattoo over his chest that only serves to remind them both that this is Sam in whole, that his own choices, his own will has turned him down this path. He expects a wave of shame again, but feels none. The only regret he feels is over losing the weight of Dean’s body over his own and the feeling of fullness and contentness after they’ve first become one and then parted again.

“So damn tight,” Dean says, barely audibly and mostly to himself.  
He rests his face against Sam’s body, moving his fingers inside him, and Sam can feel him shiver against him. The next time he speaks, he addresses Sam instead.  
“You had anyone - since?”

Ruby. He’s had Ruby. Over and over a thousand times, like drinking from a golden fountain. It seems like centuries ago, he was something Ruby needed for an endgame that never was. Now, he’s the only god in the underworld. She needs him now but not to use; to live.

He shakes his head anyway. It’s not what Dean means.  
“You know I don’t - no one but you.”  
He doesn’t let anyone in. Not this way. Not because this belongs to Dean, not for any ideology, but simply because it’s not what he needs. It hasn’t changed since he left. Sometimes he feels that nothing about him has, but it took Dean five blows to recognise him. Five.

The only response he gets is a grunt. Dean’s two knuckles deep and joins in a third finger, but he’s growing impatient, aroused; Sam can hear the weight of his breathing, every drag and roll of it as it escapes him heavy as a landslide. He knows he’s the reason for it, the only one who can light Dean up like this. The only one he needs, like he is the only one for Sam, too.

“Take me.”

“It’s too soon, Sammy.”

 _Sammy._  
One more shiver catches Sam by surprise. Yes, he had that name once.

“I don’t care,” he promises, and Dean doesn’t need more than that.

He’s slick and hot as his cock presses against Sam’s body. Smarter men would protect themselves, but they’ve been forged from the same flesh and blood and the thought doesn’t even cross their minds. He takes Sam on the grave, perhaps defiling it once more, but none of that really matters with the sigils of Hell itself painted on its sides. They rock together in a rhythm that stems from the marrows of their bones, from every cell in their bodies, in perfect harmony that tells them when to moan, when to gasp. Sam’s nails drag red marks over Dean’s back as his brother fills him up, thrusting into him, making the dimly lit chamber rain with lights around him, and Dean’s lips and teeth barely ever leave his neck and collarbones, marking him for his own once again like it’s all that he’s been made for. They hold on tight, Sam’s thighs pressing into Dean’s hips until his bones bruise him, and Dean’s arms wrapping around his body, fingers running soothingly over and over the back of his neck or wrapping around his hair and pulling again. It’s easy, like the most natural thing in the world: out of everything they’ve ever practiced together, this is what they’ve always done the best. It’s like everything in them is one, sparks of fire and streams of water at once, twisting and turning together until there’s no telling the difference between the two. Sam’s shaking, tongue catching drops of blood from Dean’s cut lip, mouth open for sounds that only his brother can tempt out of him.

He comes first - always - and leaves Dean shaking, eyes closed and back arched, until the pulsing of his body pulls him over the edge too. Afterwards, they’re a heap over the casket, holding onto each other so as to not fall like the first-aid kit and the candle have both done, leaving them in darkness. It takes a long while for the ache to return, and for the stings of torn flesh to make themselves known from amongst the last ripples of pleasure, but Dean stays in even longer, only pulling out when he finally stands up and starts pulling his clothes back on. Sam sits on the casket, the altar, with one knee pressed against his chest and his arms wrapped around it, the cut on his left arm throbbing, watching Dean pick up the hooks and the threads and the bandages from the dusty floor. Sometimes he throws an empty glance towards the dead demon vessels surrounding them, mind numb, refusing to return back to his interrupted task.

“Sam, I…” Dean begins, but he doesn’t finish.

Sam fills it up for him: “Sometimes, I miss you”, or “I still love you”, or something else that his brother would never say. He nods, not knowing what the words he really meant to say would have been.

“I have my reasons,” he tells him gently when Dean has fallen quiet, referring to the mess that surrounds them, “Let me take care of my own, and they won’t cause you trouble.”

A tension flashes over Dean’s expression as he watches his naked brother. Then it smooths over and he looks away.  
“I can’t promise you that, Sammy,” he says calmly and throws his bag over his shoulder again.  
“But I guess that means I’ll see you around, then.”

Sam nods.  
“Until then.”

“Yeah.”

He still sits there when the doors creak, letting inside a gust of cold wind that smells of rotting leaves and autumn rain.


End file.
